


Tabhair póg dom

by misskatieleigh



Series: the normal life is an illusion [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Manly Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-29
Updated: 2007-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:32:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misskatieleigh/pseuds/misskatieleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boston on St. Patrick's Day is usually a bad idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tabhair póg dom

Dean’s pretty sure it’s not a good idea for him to be in Boston on St. Patrick’s Day. It’s not that he’s part Irish – though his hair tints a bit toward red if he’s in the sun too long – or that he’d give his left arm to see Sam make that piss face of his whenever he tries to drink Guinness - seriously, it's hilarious. No, the reason he shouldn’t be here has everything to do with the dark-haired girl in the corner and the smile lighting up her face that he wishes was for him. His Amy.

He’s a bit drunk; it’s hard not to be when surrounded by rowdy college students and way too many tipsy, flirting girls. Sam’s got his piss face down pat – though he’s well on his way to being as drunk as Dean. They’ve got karaoke in the bar – Irish songs only, for the night, and Dean thinks he might cry if he hears “Danny Boy” strangled out by one more wasted voice. He watches Amy in the corner; her head tipped back in laughter as the blonde girl to her right slowly drops her head onto the table. She’s got a couple of admirers, most likely frat boys trying to get her to dance, but she’s not taking the bait. Still, Dean’s heart races every time a hand brushes over her fingers.

He tilts his head back, draining the glass in his hand of it’s dark bitterness. It settles heavy in his stomach, a clear sign to stop drinking, but he’s always been one for overdoing it so he orders another. He’s almost convinced himself to forget about Amy when her hand slips over the top of his. She doesn’t say anything, just turns herself into his arms and settles against the front of the bar stool -his residence for the night- resting back against his chest. She steals the beer from his hand, the back of her head brushing his shoulder as she swallows it down.

Dean’s numb; too much alcohol in his veins and too many memories in his mind to do anything other than wrap his arm around her waist and hold her against him. He’s talking, babbling things wet against her ear that would never slip from his lips were it not for the stupor he’s in. “Miss you s’much; miss you, baby. Wanted t’stay but I had to go. Wish you could’ve known. Wish I could keep you with me. Loved you, loved loved… love you. Still do, I think. Still love.”

Her mouth is sugar and bitter, beer and honey over the taste of _her_ when she turns and kisses him slow and deep. His hands skim across her back, flirting slowly over the sweet curve of her hips.

In the background the music swirls up again, something different this time. Dean pulls back, slides off the worn leather of the barstool and tugs her forward against his chest. “Come with me, with us. Come stay with me.” His words are a mantra against her hair, lost in the noise of the crowd and slur of his lips. She must hear something though, her mouth soft and insistent against his neck, her body pushing him slowly toward the door.

The air outside is cold; the chilled damp of March on the coast, slush still gathered on the streets and their breath a white mist as she presses him against the brick outside. “Not s’posed to be here Dean. How’m I s’posed to forget you if you’re here?”

Dean slips his fingers across her cheeks, cold hands over even colder skin until he’s looking into her eyes. His breath ghosts across her face, a brief fog between them that quickly dissipates. “Don’t want you to forget me.”

Amy smiles, presses bitten-red lips against his mouth and licks the taste of beer from his tongue. “M’not letting you leave me this time, Dean.”

\--- --- --- 

Riding the T in Boston on St. Patrick’s Day is an adventure, to say the least. The train’s full with people still heading out for the night so Amy ends up pressed up against Dean’s chest while he hangs onto the bar and tries not to crash every time they pull into a station. The rumble and sway of the track vibrates down into his bones and by the time they spill out into the night air Dean’s body is practically humming. Amy pulls him down for another kiss, promises and laughter on her lips as they wander through the streets.

Sam’s taking care of the car -and Amy’s friend by default- with a promise to get them both home safely from the bar. Judging from the way the blonde had plastered herself to Sam’s side; both the car and the girl were going to end up in the same place tonight.

Right now though, Sam is the last thing on Dean’s mind. He’s much more interested in the soft skin under his hands and getting the front door of Amy’s apartment open. They finally manage to get inside, kicking the door closed and bolting it shut behind them out of instinct, at least on Dean’s part. He feels like he’s spinning, lost in a haze of perfume and sweat, grounded only by the weight of her hands on his skin. Amy pulls at his shirt, slender fingers tracing across his stomach and up.

She’s wearing a dress, green for the holiday and swirling loose from hip to knee in a tempting flare of fabric. Dean walks her backwards across the room to the tiny kitchen counter, lifting her up onto the surface and tracing the silk of her thighs with open palms. “Do you remember?” she whispers, her heated breath against his ear. “Remember fucking me on the counter and Sam walking in on us?”

Dean slides his hands higher, damp lace under his fingertips and then nothing but wet heat and the scent of her hanging in the air. His mouth maps the line of her neck, lapping at pooling sweat and swallowing the gasp from her lips as he fucks two fingers deep into her, his thumb pressing sweet friction against her clit. She comes suddenly, all sharp cries and flexing muscle, fingernails biting into the back of his arms and a dull crack as her head tips back against the kitchen cabinet. His voice is deep, a rumble vibrating against the side of her neck. “I remember everything. Could never forget you.”

Amy’s limp; sated weight against his chest when he lifts her off the counter and walks her over to her bed, pulling the dress over her head before she relaxes against the smooth sheets. The crisp, white scars on her hip stand out against the pink flush of her skin, just as distinct as the first time he ran his fingers over them. She curls in toward him, the back of her hand skimming across his thigh. “Want you to stay, Dean. Please?”

She’s asleep before he can even slide into bed with her.

\--- --- --- 

Morning brings too-bright sunshine and Amy’s warm body wrapped around Dean’s back, soft fingertips tickling across his stomach in light strokes. He can feel her breath against his shoulder, her mouth pressing soft kisses along the curve of his neck and under his ear. He can smell her, the musk on his fingers rich and sweet. He knows how they’d taste, the same as always, if he put them in his mouth but he doesn’t want to move and wake up from this dream.

Amy’s hand strokes further down; down until it’s more than just a light brush of fingertips. Then it’s the curve of her palm over flesh and deft fingers circling around him, heat pooling in his belly from the touch. And it must be a dream because he’s not drunk anymore and she’s still here. He can’t help but to push into her touch, searching forward for that heat, for that friction against his skin.

He can feel her moving behind him, untangling herself from his back until he’s lying flat and she’s moving over him, her hand still stroking gently, softly, just this side of not enough. He can picture her exactly in his mind, sunlight ghosting over her pale skin, head tipped back as she raises herself over him and sinks down. It’s still a dream though, still too much like countless mornings waking up in motel rooms with his own hand wrapped around himself. He’s just waiting for the sharp break into reality, bright sunlight replaced with dingy wallpaper and scratchy bedcovers.

Dean doesn’t open his eyes until she kisses him, his eyes fluttering open to take in the sight of her cheeks flushed pink and her eyes dark, just for him. His hands slide up her thighs and grasp her hips, testing this reality with calloused palms. She kisses him again, surging up before sliding back down, wet heat all around him. Her scent hangs heavy in the air, his salt and sweat mixing in, and he finally feels like he’s awake.

\--- --- --- 

After, when he’s lying next to her, brushing sweat-soaked hair away from her face and trying to calm to rip-roar of his heartbeat in his chest, he feels himself start to disconnect again. He can feel his heart slipping back into its iron shell and the roughshod shield once again braces itself around him. He wants to talk but his throat feels like it’s closing off, unable to let his secrets slip without the grease of alcohol hazing his brain.

Amy watches him, her eyes wandering across his face and their mingled sweat cooling on her skin. She shifts closer, not a breath of air between them though the distance is tangible, the tension and things unsaid hanging overhead like a storm cloud. Dean’s cell phone is the lightning and the thunder both, drawing him out of her arms and out of her bed. It’s Sam, disappointment clouding his voice when he asks if Dean is ready to go. When Dean turns back to look at Amy, she’s already on her side, curled away from him.

“No, I don’t think I am.” 

  



End file.
